EVERYTHING IN OUR LIVES IS BUT A GIFT, TO BE USED AS A GIFT

Everything in our lives is but a gift, to be used as a gift
------------------------------------------------------------------------
By FR. RON ROLHEISER, omi
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Several years ago a young Benedictine monk shared this story in class.
He lived in a monastery that kept a rather strict rule. Their observance of
poverty and obedience required that he ask permission of his abbot before
purchasing anything, even the smallest object.
If he wanted to buy a new shirt, he needed the abbot¹s permission. Likewise
if he wanted to take some stationary supplies from the storeroom, a pen or
some paper, he needed permission. For years, he felt that this was
belittling.
³I felt like a child,² he said. ³It seemed silly to me that a grown man
should have to ask permission to buy a new shirt. I looked at men my own age
who were married, raising children, paying for houses, and presidents of
companies and I felt that our rule reduced me to a child and I resented it.²
But eventually his attitude changed: ³I came to realize that there is an
important spiritual and psychological principle in our rule in having to ask
permission to buy or use something. Ultimately none of us owns anything and
nothing comes to us by right.
Everything is a gfit
³Everything is a gift, including life itself, everything should have to be
asked for and nothing should be taken for granted as if it was ours by
right. We should be grateful to God just for giving us a little space.
There should be an abbot in each of our lives from whom we should ask for
permission to buy or use anything.
³Now when I ask permission from the abbot, I no longer feel like a child.
Rather I feel that I am more properly in tune with the way things should be
in a gift-oriented universe where nobody has a right to ultimately claim
anything as his own.
³Everyone should have to ask for permission before buying or using
anything.²
His story reminded me of an incident in my own life: When I was a novice in
our Oblate novitiate, our novice-master tried to impress upon us the meaning
of religious poverty by making us write two Latin words, Ad usam, inside of
every book that was given us for our own use. Literally the words translate
into ³For use.²
The idea was that although a book was given to you for your personal use,
you were never to think that you actually owned it. Real ownership lay
elsewhere.
You were only a steward of someone else¹s property.
This idea was then extended to everything else that you were given for your
personal use ‹ your clothes, your sports equipment, things you received from
your family, and even your toiletries and toothbrush.
You got to use them, but they were not really yours. You had them ad usam.
One of the young men in that novitiate eventually left our community and
went on to become a medical doctor. He remains a close friend and one day
while I was in his office I picked up one of his medical textbooks. I opened
the cover and there were the words: Ad usam.
We own nothing
When I asked him about this he made a comment to this effect: ³Even though I
no longer belong to a religious order and no longer have the vow of poverty,
I still like to live by the principle that our novice-master taught us: In
the end, we don¹t really own anything. These books aren¹t really my own even
though I¹ve paid for them. They¹re mine to use, temporarily. Nothing really
belongs to anybody and I try not to forget that.²
Everything comes to us as gift so that nothing can ever be owned as ours by
right.
Both of these stories can help remind us of something that deep down we
already know but tend to forget, namely, that what ultimately undergirds all
spirituality, all morality, and all authentic human relationship is the
unalterable truth that everything comes to us as gift so that nothing can
ever be owned as ours by right.
Life is a gift, breath is a gift, our body is a gift, food is gift, any love
given us is a gift, friendship is a gift, our talents are a gift, our
toothbrush is a gift, and the shirts, pencils, pens, medical textbooks we
use are each of them a gift.
We get to have them, ad usam, but we should never nurse the illusion that we
own them, that they are ours, that we can claim them by right.
Metaphorically there should be an abbot in each of our lives from whom we
should ask for permission to buy or use anything. That would be a recipe for
health.
In those moments when we are most in touch with ourselves (and generally
those are the moments when we most feel our vulnerability and contingency),
we sense that truth.
The reverse is also true, at moments when we feel strong, in control, and
aware of our own power, we tend to forget this truth and cling to the
illusion that things are ours by right.
Maybe if we all had to ask permission to buy a new toothbrush or a new item
of clothing we would be more aware that everything we think we own is really
only ours ad usam.
Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and
disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.